Collection of the Damned
by JabberjayHeart
Summary: They are ours to control, to use and abuse, to destroy and fix as we see fit. They're our collection, our toys, and we will treat them thus. Welcome to Collection of the Damned, and EsmeraldaVerse Victors!
1. Cordelia Ethon

**Cordelia Ethon, District Five Female.**

**Victor of the 59th Hunger Games.**

* * *

It was expected, for me to be truly terrified of what might happen. Everything was unknown and it terrified, terrified me to the core knowing that I couldn't know. For a girl who prized herself on keeping one step ahead of everyone else, I felt truly lost. Not only that, but the odds weren't in my favour. In fifty-eight years, District Five had only three Victors and one, a young teenager named Caspian, killed himself only a few years after emerging "victorious".

Even with Aster and Cable by my side, I felt lost and alone and so very terrified.

"You'll be fine," Cable told me one night on the couch, long after Aster and my district partner, Lucius, had gone to bed. I was scared, the beginning of the end being tomorrow. "No matter what happens, I'll be there. I'll guide you as best as I can."

"But how can you?" I mumbled back. "How can you guide me when I still have to fight? I'll have to kill, Cable, and I don't want to do that. I don't like violence."

He sighed. "In here, violence is the only thing you are ever going to see."

And he was so very right. I cried, right there and then, a bottled up teenager ready to meet her doom. I was like a dam, water gushing free, and I couldn't be stopped or controlled. I was going to wash everything away with my tears and, at the end of the day, I was going to die, so letting my guard down for just a scratch wouldn't have been a crime. Cable comforted me as best as he could, his arm wrapped around my shoulder and soft words being uttered in my ear to try and comfort for me.

He was older, much older, but my heart ached at the feeling. My own family never showed me this attention, even when I was being sent off to the Capitol. They kept quiet and stoned, watching with glassy eyes but never fully drinking in the situation that their daughter was about to possibly die and never come home and just yearned, craved, needed some attention in order to keep it together. Cable gave me that. He gave me his comfort and care and heart, and I held it so very close to my chest as I rose on that platform the next day.

Sometimes, at night, I remember the bitter cold air blowing against my neck, and the way I'd have to cover it up with the fur hood to stop being nipped raw. I was shivering - from the cold and my fears - as the gong rang out and chaos ensued.

Everything goes blurry after that. I made it out alive, but with nothing to my name but a simple spear, the one item I didn't want.

I was alone the entire time I was in that arena. Lucius died on the second day and I suddenly felt District Five's united pressure fall heavily on my shoulders to help bring them out of poverty. I dragged myself through slushed snow and faced my own demons and emotions, all by myself. I had no help nor did any comfort. I was on my own, plain and simple, and I had everything to lose if I didn't continue to put one foot in front of the other.

My victory was announced shortly after I made my only kill of the games. The Career from District One, aptly named Jem, ran for me with wild, feral eyes and a beating heart that I needed to stop in order to stay alive. It was so cold, that night, but I managed to throw the spear straight at her before she could even register her clear loss, having no weapons and whipped cheeks.

Cable was there when I returned. He was brave and charming, bringing me food and drinks to my house when I refused to leave for weeks on end. Eventually, my family gave up trying to make contact with me and things became rockier. My only beacon of hope was in the form of Cable Watts, my mentor, my saviour and my lover.

Years took their toll on him. From his victory to his unknowing death, Cable only saved me and Cameron Flinch. He watched child after child die, and suddenly, my love wasn't enough to contain him, and a dark, acidic drink was the only way to escape reality.

He was already dead before they whisked him away.

Four of us remained, and Cable was the male representative in the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games. His protege, Cameron Flinch, was taken with him. Me and Aster held the fort, knowing that neither would come out alive. We had gotten the clear message that a rebellion had been planned, but that some Mockingjay was not all knowing and didn't even see that she was but a pawn for Panem's freedom.

Cable was the first victim. Cameron was washed away a day later.

They stormed Aster's house one night, a night that I had gone around to keep an eye on him, seeing as his health was decreasing. Without a second thought, they executed Aster with a bullet through the head, just as he was sipping on the warm tomato soup I had prepared for him. Blood splattered on my cheek and I can still taste the coppery substance, deeply held in the pores of my tongue. They took me away, but I had nothing to lose anymore. My lover and my two friends were all but dead.

They kept me prisoner, tortuting me with creative methods, like bathing me in water and taking a cattle prod to my damp skin. They hung me upside down, left me for a few days without any food or water, even locked me up in the dark, as if that'd break me. I was living in the darkness of my mind; nothing scared me anymore. I was ready for death, ready to be back in Cable's arms.

Then, one night, a Peacekeeper approached my cell and unlocked it. As I walked out - not having said a word - I turned to the man and said a simple sentence that would never leave my mind: "In here, violence is the only thing you are ever going to see."

I promised to make their lives hard. The first Peacekeeper to keep me on suicide watch found his early demise, arsenic in his coffee. The second was stabbed repeatedly. Nobody knew, but that was Coriolanus' plan; to make me seem frail and weak. Soon, more were upon me, surrounding my house and my home. Each time I tried to hang myself, drink bleach, drag a blade across my wrist... they tasered me into unconsciousness or chained me to my bedpost.

I was to be punished with my life. I was a traitor and the only way to beat me was to not allow me to have death, to not have Cable.

* * *

**So this is the beginning in seeing the EsmeraldaVerse Victors.**

**I'll be going in chronological order with whose alive, which will including Annie and Peeta, but not Haymitch. He died before I created EsmeraldaVerse, so we're leaving him outta here. These will, however, vary on word count and most definitely are not drabbles.**

**Let me know your thoughts, and feel free to check the blog on my profile to see these guys pictures and everything!**

**Next: Ida Noire. **


	2. Ida Noire

**Ida Noire, District Eleven Female.**

**Victor of the 63rd Hunger Games.**

* * *

I was a poor excuse of a child before I won. My parents used to hit me constantly, telling me that I was nothing more than a problem to them. That, sometimes, they wished that I was never born. Apparently, I ate too much, or slept too much, or just stood around and made them feel uncomfortable. The Hunger Games were a pleasant escape from them and really, that's saying something about their intensity.

When I returned, they suddenly loved me. My mother, for the first time since I could ever remember, gave me a tight squeeze. My father kissed me on the cheek, his breath smelling of peppermint and he never, ever bothered to make effort with hygiene.

It was that day onwards that I knew people - loved or strangers - would use me for what I had.

I wasn't traumatized like the average Victor, and very much like Seeder, I kept myself healthy and didn't resort to drinking like Chaff had or even self-deprecating like Banks. I made sure that I would be prepared for anything that would happen. When the Quarter Quell was announced, we gathered and spoke about our options.

"No matter what," Seeder had faced me, eyes hardened and warning. "Whether I'm reaped or you are, you are not to go, Ida. I'll be the female, and Chaff is going to volunteer, Banks."

"No!" Banks exclaimed. Chaff was like a younger brother to him, and Banks was clearly older and withered though. With his ways and attitude at the time, sending him in there would only cause problems. I understood Seeder's method, though I hated not being able to do anything. I wanted to help. I wanted to be useful and show my parents that I was capable of more than what they had pinned me with.

So, the moment Seeder was reaped and Banks' name was called - and Chaff went running, defending the man that became almost like a father figure to us all - I promised myself to be apart of the rebellion that Seeder warned me to not get involved with. Banks had no idea, no-one would tell him, but I could. I could rally District Eleven against the Capitol and with the recent death of Rue Leary and Seeder Tax in everyone's minds, it would be easy.

I remember the protest I had staged not lot after Seeder's death spread across every television set in Panem. Angry citizens lined the square, each holding mediocre weapons such as frying pans and brooms, ready to fight back. I, myself, had a sturdy pocket knife that I was to use for sculpting, my "hobby" judged by Coriolanus Snow.

They attacked and we fought back.

With masks over our faces and hair tied back, the Peacekeeper didn't even know it was me who attempted to stab him when he manhandled a little, spunky ten-year-old. Chaos was abundant, and I knew, I just knew that I had a bigger purpose, a purpose that my parents never found for me nor wanted me to find myself. By smothering me in insults, I was their little pet.

But it was time to grow up. It was time to stand up and do something.

However, I didn't anticipate back-up. More of their white coats and tasers - even a water cannon - filled the square and people were overrun. Men, women and children were soon battered underneath the ghostly white lights, screams and cries echoing in the cold air. Even the white people that I despised had came down from their small huts on the hills, their bows notched. We were trying to fight back, but it was useless. People were running scared and, overwhelmed, I ran with tears springing at my eyes.

I felt useless. I felt like garbage. I felt like I was nothing because I fled, and the eyes of the alarmed woman as she was tasered to the floor followed me accusingly because she knew, she knew that I was a guidance of freedom that chose to run instead of fight. Their leader, their beacon of hope, abandoned them.

At that very, tense moment, I understood why Banks hated himself.

I ran straight towards him. But, as I breached Victor's Village, my stomach clenched when I noticed Banks' house was surrounded. He was to be another victim. I cowered in the bushes, peering out between leaves. I hated myself and everything I had become, because slowly, they escorted a struggling Banks to the middle of the open ground, and shot him three times through the back. He slumped, bleeding red.

I fell asleep, eventually, eyes wet and acid lodged in my throat. I just stayed there until the next morning when I was found by a local girl, bruised and with a busted lip. She didn't even look eight, with her swishing pigtails and large, saucer-sized brown eyes. She took my clothes and hid it, telling me that I was brave and that she prayed the rebellion worked, so she wouldn't have to be reaped.

I didn't feel it brave, like she said I was. I felt like a coward. I ran for Banks' comfort or answers, and instead, he took my place in death.

And, when they came and questioned me on the riots and my "involvement" in the sizzling rebellion, I claimed obliviousness and was spared.

The death toll in District Eleven after the rebellion crashed and Seeder died was too much to handle. I heard, on the wind, that bodies lined the squares, many children caught in the crossfire, many crying for their parents or for the fighting to stop and instead received too much electricity for their little bodies to handle. Chaff's death hit me later that day when all hopes of a new Panem withered.

I was saved over Seeder and Chaff and Banks because I was a coward. The little children were braver than me, but they'd never get the recognition.

I would forever be honoured as being District Eleven's only surviving Victor, rightfully a part of the "Fated Ten", when really, I allowed the others to die without protest.

After many years of trying to prove them wrong, my parents were right.

I didn't deserve life, not after this.

* * *

**So here is another with Ida.**

**Ida was a leader back in District Eleven, leading a rebellion from home whilst Seeder and Chaff played the Hunger Games. Also, just to clarify, these will vary in size and will not always be about after the Games. It'll be important parts of their lives, whether in the Games, before or after.**

**Next: Evander Rocque.**


	3. Evander Rocque

**Evander Rocque, District Two Male.**

**Victor of the 67th Hunger Games.**

* * *

I was trained by the best. Of course, as a Career from District Two, it was clear that we had the best. I believed in that ever since I was a child. Watching trainees turn into tributes and then into Victors, gaining glory and a life only the damned could dream of, I knew I had to be one of them. Icarus, Narissa, Vikus, Marcia, Aragon, Liam, Brutus, Lyme, Acron and Enobaria... they had become my idols. I worshipped the ground they walked on.

So, when I entered the Training Centre, I was elite. I sliced and slashed and stabbed my way into the top class, honoured to be under the teaching of Vikus Sarette, a Career whose triumphant kill of twelve people had cemented him in history. Under his guidance, I grew and honed my skills, finally get the prestige award to represent District Two as a tribute.

Vikus took me under the wing then, training me alongside the female. We worked hard, harder than I had ever done before. I cried and bled and sweated away half of my life, just to be prepared.

I entered. A tropical island, we were thrown on. Everything was a dream come true and it took a few moments to really understand where I was, what I was about to do, and how much I was ready to indulge in a little desire.

I murdered many. Six, to be precise. Two in the bloodbath - the boy from District Eleven and the girl from District Seven - before taking out the girl from District Five the next day. Then, when my ally got cocky, the girl from District Four joined my ever-growing list. I made my way to the final with hardly any injuries. The cut above my eye was the worse, and it was delivered by the a thirteen-year-old boy from District Three who became number five.

One more, and I faced him down. He stood no chance, the boy from District Twelve, as I speared his heart after a couple of minutes battling through the sand and tide.

I returned a hero. I returned a Victor. I had accomplished everything I had wanted to.

Vikus congratulated me, called me his best pupil, and threw me into the life of a trainer. From their eyes, I watched children buckle under the pressure, gain broken bones and life-changing injuries that disabled them from action. I watched blood, sweat and tears flood from their bodies. Did I go through that? The thought empowered me more. I overcame that and the Hunger Games. I was unstoppable.

That's when he arrived.

Slight ginger hair, muscles and a devilish grin. Signus Stone, cocky and young but oh so very powerful.

Our friendship grew from there.

We spent hours upon end with each other and not just training. We spent nights up late, talking, as he told me about his life. He was an only child who felt he had everything to lose if he didn't impress his mother. He grew teary-eyed, talking about his father's death and how his mother just wasn't the same; turning from sweet and motherly, into a total bitch, pushing him hard to not be a failure.

I watched Signus enter the arena just two years after me, his skills having been pushed to breaking point. He came home, but of course he did. Signus was a brute.

It was too late. Signus Stone was under my skin, and I would have done anything for him.

A few years went by and we watched other tributes return home, but never another District Two trainee. The next year after him, the crazy girl from District Four stayed afloat. A sweet but turned malicious District Seven girl was next. Then, a cooky boy from District Six followed by a strange, young District One Career. Me and Signus, we watched together as the tributes from District Twelve broke every single rule that the Capitol has placed during the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games.

The Quell was because of them. They were the ones who broke the rules, but everyone had to pay now. It was because of them that me and Signus might've been sent in. With burning fury in my eyes, I stood side-by-side with Signus as Enobaria was reaped and Brutus charged in front of Acron when his name was called. I never forgot that anger as I watched two of my close friends, my idols, fight one more time because two tributes couldn't keep it in their pants and treat each other like enemies.

It was then that Lyme Steele suggested we join the rebellion. She had always wanted to a hero, or more correctly, a martyr. Taking Aragon Pelt with her, they fought, not even knowing about twisted Acron and his egomaniacal ways. Being the total bastard that he was, he informed the Capitol of a strike team that Lyme and Aragon had brought together. Bombs rained down on the brittle warehouse, killing them.

"Do you think he did that because he wants the rebellion to end?" Signus asked, after Vikus and Narissa Clinton had called for an emergency meeting when they returned from mentoring duties for Brutus and Enobaria.

"If it is Acron's doing, then I wouldn't be surprised if he did it to have sole ownership," Narissa informed us. According to her, with the rest of us dead, the Training Centre would fall solely into his hands. His grandfather had created it, but the deed was shared amongst all alive District Two Victors. If we were all dead, he'd have it to himself. "We have to beat him at his own game."

As the bloodbath and the rebellion rained heavily, we went about our plans to catch Acron out.

Narissa fell first, throat slit in her sleep. She was close, a crumpled note in her hand telling us the next major clue to Acron's plan. Vikus took it, worked it out, before mysteriously disappearing and turning up a day later, stuffed into a garbage chute in Narissa's home, butchered and dead.

We were next. We were the next targets.

"Evander... what do we do?" Signus questioned the day that Brutus' death was aired. I thought about it carefully, and with the idea cemented in my mind, we went about our ways. Enobaria's death was televised next, but the damage had already been done.

Signus stayed with me that night, the night the Peacekeepers tore down my front door and charged in. We were waiting, we knew. Too many deaths would be suspicious, that's what Narissa found and Vikus decoded. He was planning on incriminating the rest of us as being part of the rebellion, but when Narissa caught on and then Vikus, he murdered them, hoping the plan hadn't reached mine nor Signus' ears.

It was all too late.

"Mr Rocque and Mr Stone, you are to come with us."

"Before I do that," I said, standing by Signus' side, just like I always had done. "I believe you should check out Acron Brazier's house. I saw some... damning evidence that we are, indeed, being framed, and that Acron instead is the traitor."

They ran as fast as they could, taking our word. Signus and I, we stood at the door as they broke into Acron's house. I could hear his shouts and complains, telling them that they were wrong, before something smashed. Signus tensed as the Peacekeepers dragged Acron out, his smaller, lithe frame struggling and scrambling in their grip.

They threw him down to the wet, slick gravel. At that moment, he looked up at us with his dead, cold eyes as the bullet pierced his brain.

"I did this for us," I told Signus, his questions meeting me every day after, when the rebellion fell apart and the Hunger Games continued. "I did this to protect us."

Because for him, my best friend, I would've committed murder over and over again.

* * *

**Woo! Evander wasn't so bad, but he was pushed into a tough corner. I hope you liked the inkling of Brutus, Enobaria and Lyme! **

**Two people have asked me to include what the arena looked like, how many kills, etc. so really, I want to address that. I won't be creating over eighty different arenas for the tributes when, in character, some of them don't think their arena was important or it is too damaging to think about. It'll be mentioned if it becomes an important piece to their character.**

**As for kills, you can check the blog for that. This one-shot series is simply to put stories towards the faces on there. :)**

**Next: Buck Kamut.**


	4. Buck Kamut

**Buck Kamut, District Nine Male.**

**Victor of the 68th Hunger Games.**

* * *

I was left alone.

All my life I had been alone. Never physically, but emotionally. My parents were there but also weren't there. I mean, going into the arena wasn't the problem, nor the killing or betrayal... it was my relationship that affected their trust in me. All my life, they told me to be responsible and safe, to not take risks if they wouldn't produce anything good or vital. Well, Maja would have done that. I loved her, a lot more than anyone could try and counter. Maja was my life when I returned.

I was scared and suffering, flashes of my two allies burning through my skull at night. My mentor, Auckland, he tried his best but I wouldn't respond. I wasn't emotionally broken, but it hurt, it hurt a lot knowing that the short friendships I had built were in vain, because I was destined as Victor without knowing.

Maja came in shortly after my return. She was Auckland's niece, only a year younger than me. With all of my mentors vastly older than me - Auckland being the nearest, but still twenty years older - he thought that to make me feel comfortable and sane, was for me to interact. He knew I wouldn't do it on my own, so he brought in Maja, her sweeping blonde hair and kind face striking me and making my heart hiccup.

It was literally love at first sight, and she never left.

"You'd be hopeless without me," she'd tease daily, not even realising that she was completely right. "What would you do without me, anyway?"

"I'd probably die." I'd reply honestly, and she would laugh, dismissing the seriousness in my tone.

Every day, Maja visited, talking quietly and smiling away. She cleaned my house and cooked me food, even when I told her not to. After a year of teetering around, I finally kissed her, the current broom falling from her hand and clattering to the marble floor.

I asked Auckland for permission, for Maja to come live with me, despite being young.

He agreed - he knew it would happen.

I couldn't thank him enough.

My parents, however, weren't thrilled. They had refused to leave their cottage by the fields, a family-home that held memories of me taking my first steps and Allan's wake, shortly after his death in the Hunger Games a year prior to my birth. I lived alone - I hated being alone, one of the many reasons for stupidly making friends in the Capitol - so inviting Maja shouldn't have been a problem... it apparently was.

"You're only seventeen," they berated me. "Far too young to be living with a girlfriend."

"But obviously young enough to kill people and participate in a death match." I often spat back, even though it wasn't their fault. I had matured. I was no longer the silly, goofy kid that played pranks. They needed to understand that, but they never. I loved my parents - I would die for them, come back and repeat the painful process - but they treated me like a kid when the childish Buck had been murdered in the arena alongside the innocent.

I moved Maja in anyway, and for a few years, we grew up together, learned new things. We argued but made up. I broke down, the nightmares too much, and Maja made plenty of soup and cookies to help calm me down. We cried, laughed, marvelled as Maja fell pregnant but shortly had a miscarriage. She was my rock, as corny as it sounded. No-one knows what it's like, how... distant you feel from reality. Everyone needs something to ground them, and Maja was it for me.

At twenty-three, it all changed. Auckland was reaped back into a surprising Quarter Quell alongside Barley Crow, our only female Victor.

I rocked Maja back and forth, her screams and wails breaking through. We watched - me and Maja - as both fell in the bloodbath. Maja crumbled, her uncle sliced open by Gloss Arvoy, someone who I grew to treat respectively a few years earlier.

I took Maja to bed and held her, tears soaking into my clothes. For the years that she cared for me, I would do the same.

Maja was my rock, but sometimes, even rocks bleed. She was never the same, after that night, after the failed rebellion and Victory was taken by the Capitol, never to return. She would babble that Peacekeepers would come for me, just like they did for Victory. I told her it was all nonsense, but one night, the lights in Victory's house opposite me went out. The next morning, I checked, only to find Victory's wife and children gone, the house barren and destroyed.

I held Maja tighter from that day onwards, fearful that they would take her. Her mental health decreased until she would only speak singular words, her eyes constantly darting around.

It broke her. The Hunger Games didn't break me, but they targeted the one person whom I had always loved.

Each time I stared at Maja, I wanted to take away her pain. I sometimes wondered that, if I had died in the arena and never returned, she wouldn't have met me and wouldn't have broken down from paranoia. Then, I'd remember all the good and bad times combined, realising that the journey we took together was unforgettable. I wouldn't trade it in for anything, and I'm sure Maja would think the same.

* * *

**No real broken tribute or depressing ending with murders and death. Buck was always strong-minded.**

**For once, I wanted to show that Victors do, indeed, have families and fall in love. A lot of Victors are believed to be childless (apart from Cecelia, naturally) so I wanted to try something different. Buck wasn't broke, but his girlfriend was.**

**I should point out, again, that all of these are going to be wrote in the past tense, simply because these are things that have happened already, whether they were before, during or after their arena and Hunger Games. It's all happened.**

**Next: Signus Stone!**


	5. Signus Stone

**Signus Stone, District Two Male.**

**Victor of the 69th Hunger Games.**

* * *

He never knew how he saved me.

Evander was everything I had admired. He claimed the other Victors were his idols and, when he'd look at me, I agreed, even though I only admired him. I didn't care for Vikus' kills or Narissa's obvious notoriety. I cared for Evander because he listened.

I had no interesting in training, not really. I did it without thinking, robotic actions to make my mother happy and make my deceased father proud. It was dull, boring, but Evander's win gave me a sudden burst of life. I worked harder, just in the hopes that I'd train under him.

Then, he approached me.

He cared about me in more ways than my mother could ever dream of. He listened quietly, nodding and humming but listening, something people didn't do. They saw me - they saw the way I looked, large and muscular - and assumed I was as emotionless as a rock. They didn't understand my pain, my yearning, the fire inside of me that had died many years ago.

But Evander reignited it.

I put all of my faith in him when it came to Acron Brazier's plan, the quick demise of all the District Two Victors apart from us three.

He told me he did it for us, to protect us. He would never see the smile that creeped under my eyes when he uttered those words.

With Acron gone, me and Evander took on the Training Centre, famous for birthing us all. We rose it from the ashes, like a baby phoenix, bringing about a new reign of Careers that would storm into the new generation of Hunger Games. And, best of all, I did it by Evander's side. We shared everything. The work load, meals, obvious duties and reforming of orphan trainees... we took the responsibilities together, so one wouldn't be weighed down.

It was great. With everything refreshed, the Training Centre flourished. The first target of destruction was Acron's office, before cleaning out the others. I felt nostalgic, clearing away Narissa's photos of her grandchildren and Aragon's trophies in sports, Brutus' medal for saving those trapped in a collapsed tunnel and Enobaria's special gem collection, something she kept private, locked away in a draw. Evander reckons it was to keep her image as strong, but deep down, despite being Careers, we were still humans.

The first set of trainees came in. They were strong, fresh, ready for action but also naive. The first year after the failed rebellion, they died prematurely. Evander was slightly broken from it, having believed that we would claim nearly every year. But then came along Maverick, followed by Clifford, tributes - no, Victors - who changed everything.

Evander was bright-eyed and happy when Maverick had won. The same with Clifford. He was young and free once more, the same young Victor who captured my heart.

He never saw me, as I watched him in awe and love. He grew powerful and popular, a force to be reckoned with in District Two. He started to wear suits. He started to stand taller, wider, more confident with broad shoulders. I watched him grow and alter from the sidelines, loyal and proud. He stole my heart and I never knew it.

Over the years, I grew sickly and ill. I didn't tell anyone - keeping it hidden with constant training - but Evander grew suspicious. With Maverick, Clifford, Amity, Brick and Ajax home, he shouldn't have seen. But he did, and it tore me up inside.

"Did you have anything to share with me?" he asked, catching me in the Training Centre pumping iron. He had his arms crossed, eyes alarmed but serious. I kept my lips shut, naturally. "Signus," he said softly. "What has gotten into you?"

I was sick. So sick that sometimes, it was harder to stay in bed than it was to move about. Evander couldn't know; he'd break him.

But, he found out. Those eyes, worried and scared, tore me inside. "I'm probably going to die in a decade or so," I replied casually. The on-site physician didn't give me a proper time, but that my time was near. "I'll probably be dead soon."

"You're joking..."

"I wish I was," I sighed. "I probably won't see you finally settle down."

"I already had with you," he joked, not even realising how my heart yearned for that to be true. I had to turn away to hide my blush. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" his voice was laced with betrayal and hurt... it hurt more than the actual sickness.

"I didn't want to stress you out," I lied. "With Ajax struggling with PTSD, I thought it'd be best to focus your attention on him. I didn't want to be a burden."

"A burden?" he gasped. "Are you actually serious?"

It was only later that I realised about what he had done, why he got Acron killed. It made my heart flutter in hope. Evander went out of his way to protect me... he called me his best friend, two words that should be good to hear, but felt like a slap to the face.

I didn't want to be his best friend. I wanted to be more than that. But, best friend... this was the best I could get. And no matter what, I was going to claim it, because Evander was my idol and saved me. He repaid me without ever knowing.

* * *

**I really wanted something to keep mentioning Enobaria and Brutus. I always imagined them as a little sweeter, hidden under their tough surface. **

**Yes, Signus loved Evander. No, Evander didn't love Signus in the same way.**

**Next: sweet, sweet Annie Cresta. :)**


	6. Annie Cresta

**Annie Cresta, District Four Female.**

**Victor of the 70th Hunger Games.**

* * *

His soft, green eyes were the first thing I saw when I was rescued. His hand was laced into mine, a smile playing on his lips.

"You're awake," he mumbled. Finnick, ever so charming. "You did it, Annie. You won."

A victory? It doesn't feel like it. My head felt all spinny, like I couldn't breathe or like I was under water... my mind flashed to the scene, the water pushing me under with such force, my eardrums popped. It burned my eyes, scorched my throat, clenched around my heart with ice cold tendrils. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe. There was too much water... I was thrashing around without realising, white blankets suffocating around my body and Finnick trying to calm me like a raging sea, like he would forever do after.

And that's what he did. He became a calm to quell the storm.

Each year, I feared for my life. I feared for everything to come. They would come and get me, of course they would. I wasn't suppose to survive. I was suppose to drown, executing the crazy girl the best way the Capitol knew how; dirty tactics. I had lived, and Finnick constantly reminded me that.

"You won for a reason," he would whisper in my ear, his arm snaked around my waist. "You won because you're loved. You might not be perfect, but you're as close to it for me."

Finnick became popular. I knew that, even before being reaped. At nineteen years old and full of vigor, Finnick was sort out by most Capitol women. Sometimes, they'd request him from home, and in the middle of the night, Finnick would pry himself away from me gently, careful not to wake me up. I would already be awake, keeping still to fool him as he left, as he went to keep his safety constant by whoring himself out.

I couldn't confront him or even comfort him after particularly hard nights... because... because without Finnick, the darkness was too consuming. I needed Finnick, no matter his state. It was too hard to live without him, and I'd rather die than do that.

Our love grew secretly. Mags would watch from the sidelines, smiling with such love and care. Lagoon and Coral would sometimes invite us around for dinner, a double-date of sorts. As we ate slowly - and the thoughts of Lucas and his decapitation plagued my mind - his hand would be linked through mine, hidden under the table.

Years passed by. Other Victors returned. Mags grew sickly, a stroke rendering her speech garbled. Lagoon protected Coral when she was attacked one night, wounded and traumatized. Pryce fell ill, collapsing in the Capitol and never returning home, his death notice coming through a simple message.

Caspian Coburn was warm and gentle. When Finnick started to spend more time away, Caspian took his place to comfort me. He was older, wiser, but his kind face and smiles were soothing. I confided in him my nightmare. On how Lucas, my district partner, gets repeatedly decapitated by the other Careers, each chipping away at his neck, slowly prying his head from his body. It always ended with me taking the final swing, his head rolling on the floor.

Caspian was good. Coral was good. Lagoon was good. Mags was good. Calvary was good. Finnick was good.

Being the youngest, they treated me like the child of the group.

Then, Finnick was taken away from me. My name was called and I remember screaming. Mags' hand fell on my shoulder and my spot went to her.

Did anyone know about my child? Oh... oh I remember telling Coral about him, her, it. Finnick would never know. The words died on my tongue as, on the stage, he flashed a grin that filled me with comfort. He'd be okay. Of course, my Finnick would survive this. He was loved, adored... that'd be enough to carry him.

So why did he die?

I held onto my baby bump as if that was my only grip into reality. My Finnick. My love. My saviour.

Caspian was there. So was Coral and Lagoon, comforting me as we watched Mags and Finnick repeat procedures we had all done, from chariot rides to personal interviews. That's when Finnick mentioned a speech about his "one true love" somewhere in the Capitol. I knew it was for me, and it fed me with hope.

I became better. I wanted to be perfect for him, even if he told me I already was.

But then Mags died. Coral came and told me, arms wrapped around her body. Lagoon came in screaming after, telling me how Peacekeepers had Calvary. My heart thumped in my chest as we all ran out, District Four in mass panic as Peacekeepers stormed through the beaches and pebble pathways, fighting off people. Calvary was in handcuffs, pressed against his house.

"What's the meaning of this?" Caspian shouted at him.

They only responded with cracking the heel of their gun into Caspian's forehead. Lagoon lunged, Calvary squirmed, Coral and me held onto each other.

I cradled my baby as Coral held me together. Slowly, I could feel myself breaking once more. Lucas, the Careers, Finnick, Mags, my baby... my broken dreams and broken life...

I remember a gun shot next. There was blood, blood smeared on the wall and floor, Calvary's body slumped over. Everything went furry as Lagoon and Caspian ran over. The world blurred at the edges, Peacekeepers aiming their weapons and shouting, screaming, howling so loud.

Another gun shot. Lagoon fell. Coral screamed. Another gun shot. Coral fell.

Caspian had his hands on my shoulder, lips moving but nothing coming out. My cheeks were wet. My heart was hitching. In the background, I could see the Peacekeepers moving but my tongue, my tongue wouldn't respond, heavy and thick. He mimed something and my eyes widened, the very few words hitting me.

"I love you, my child."

Another gun shot. Blood splattered across my body, Caspian's limp hands falling from my shoulders.

Everything went black.

When I woke up, they told me I was lucky. My mental health posed no threat, according to a Capitol doctor, so I was spared because of that. Spared because I wasn't... because I wasn't...

"My baby," I repeated over and over again. "My baby, my baby, my baby."

He survived. I welcomed Finnick Cresta into the world months later, not long after burying Finnick, Caspian, Mags, Coral, Lagoon and Calvary in a mass, watery send-off, tongues of fire licking the waters surface.

I cried. I remember it was raining. Were my tears that heavy, or was it the rain?

* * *

**I hope I captured Annie's decline of sanity well. By the end, after seeing everyone she knew died, I imagined she just lost it. I hope the writing reflected that!**

**For anyone that doesn't know, Caspian was, indeed, Annie's father and my Victor from Child's Play! He wanted to hide her away, so she wouldn't be harmed. They always say that you end up with someone who resembles a parent...**

**Next: Wisp Brucknall, my cooky friend.**


	7. Wisp Brucknall

**Wisp Brucknall, District Six Male.**

**Victor of the 72nd Hunger Games.**

* * *

They used to call me the weird kid. I was odd and a loner, and in turn, a target. For the older children and even some of the younger ones. They would taunt me as I walked the streets, throwing rocks and chasing me until I couldn't breathe, my asthma playing up. I was so scared to even leave my house most days, fearful that I wouldn't return. That I'd be pushed to the limit, possibly chased onto the train track or even down an embankment.

I never wanted to kill myself, but the thought played tricks with my mind, like a darkened lust teasing me in.

When I was reaped, I got booed. Even walking to my death, they hated me. Was it not bad that I was going to die, but they had to tarnish my final memories of District Six?

My mentor, Polo Wittery, was elderly but still as mean. She was tough and rough, the total opposite of scrawny old me. She chose me as a target, well, at least it felt like that. She attempted to toughen me up with sharp words and cruel truths.

And, for a moment, I believed they did. I felt stronger, as if, because I was facing death, I felt slightly invincible, as if nothing could break me because there wasn't much left to break. I went in training and that's when it all began.

The boy from District Ten, Clay, was near me at the knives station when I tripped, my glasses spilling out in front of me. A cruel laugh escaped his lips and he stood on them, my sight crushed underneath his boot. I felt vulnerable. No-one in District Six had ever physically harmed me, but then again, physical harm is minute. Everyone is out to kill or maim instead. It was the start of a slippery slope after I told Polo.

"You need to grow a pair," her voice spat. "If you don't stand up for yourself, people will walk over you."

"So what..." I mumbled, everything blurry and distorted. "Y-You think that I sh-hould confront him? No way... no, no, I can't do t-that."

So, Polo took matters into her own hands. Being a mentor - despite being a bitch - and feeling responsible, Polo went and told Clay's mentor about the obvious bullying and that, whilst killing is allowed, intimidation isn't when under the Capitol's watch.

"You told on me?" Clay sneered the next day, my new glasses still adjusting so I didn't see him until two rough, calloused hands were clenched on my shoulders. His hot breath floated across my ear, long fingernails digging into my shoulder blades. "You're going to regret that, you little freak. I'm going to hunt you down and cut you limb by limb," I gulped, shaking so violently, it caused Clay to laugh harder. "You're pathetic."

I felt it. I always had been. My father told me to man up, but I couldn't. I preferred textbooks to soccer, cooking to drinking alcohol.

I didn't attend training on the last day. I avoided it, claimed illness, the first time it had ever been done in the Capitol. They allowed it, though Polo's weary eyes turned accusing when the Peacekeepers had left. I avoided everyone until I was pushed through the tube's opening, seeing the demonic setting of fire and brimstone.

I made my first kill only two days later, taking down a charging, wild District Eleven girl who chanted that I was evil. Apparently, the new arena twist was ashen smoke that revealed the face of the so-called "Devil", though none of my textbooks proved the theory behind it.

Then, when the final ten arrived, I found Clay. Well, in reality, he found me. I was idle, watching the volcano roar and spit lava, when he approached from behind.

"If it isn't the little." he jeered, and I knew I was as good as dead. But, I had seen evil. It didn't come in the form of a strapping Neanderthal named Clay Brussells.

I fought back for the first time in my life. My first kill was simple, easy, but Clay was harder. I cried, slashed and whimpering, my cheek cut open and my nose possibly broken before I conquered him. A rock had come loose. I took advantage, lunging at him with two hands outwards, knocking him into the bubbling magma below.

I came home. I conquered it.

But I still wasn't accepted. They saw what I done, how I cried when my final opponent chose to kill himself rather than die at the hands of fiery lizards, how I begged for my life to be over for the first time ever, making it reality rather than a teasing destination of apparent peace.

They still threw their rocks. They chased me, young and old, mocking me for everything I was and everything I had become. I might've been a Victor, but in their eyes, I was still the odd, cooky boy who just wasn't good enough.

So when Carrah and Track were sent back into the arena and Polo and Vectra joined the rebellion without telling me... I realised that nothing had changed.

I was weak and still the weird, fifteen-year-old bullied boy, ignored by all.

People sometimes wonder why I was spared, why I wasn't killed.

Truth is, I wasn't a part of the rebellion because no-one trusted me. I was still weak in their eyes, and the tough changing Panem didn't need a weakling's help.

* * *

**See, not everyone is a rebel leader. Some, like Wisp, weren't invited because they weren't good enough. Of course, the others got killed anyway...**

**So yeah. Not much to say, but Wisp is so damaged, it's kind of sad. Nothing changed for him.**

**Next: ...Augustus Kingston, everyone.**


	8. Augustus Kingston

**Augustus Kingston, District One Male.**

**Victor of the 73rd Hunger Games.**

* * *

Kingston Academy was something my family were proud of. All those decades ago, my grandfather had built the tower from the ground up, ashes from the Dark Days formed and refined into something that would forever help the future of District One.

We were the first Career district to win. Velveteen Amos, who won three years into what was known as the Hunger Games, started off the tradition of beautiful, blonde-haired vixens who used looks and charms to worm their way towards the final. She started a tradition that I admired and adored. Her name was cemented as legendary, and even after her death, people would remember her lithe body and beautiful, flowing locks of gold.

One day, when looking through the files, I stumbled across her picture. People had always talked about her - used her a driving symbol for future trainees and tributes, telling them that they'd be as legendary as Velveteen - but I had never pictured her. Not really, anyway. I flipped through out of boredom, and when I saw her photo, my life changed at the small age of ten.

I became obsessed with her. With lookalikes. With a character-type that I had to find, worship, love.

Any blonde-haired girl I saw, would sneak into my fantasies. They would drill into my skull and my dreams. Every waking moment would be thinking of ways to coin them, to make them my own. I need to have one, no two or three by my side at all times.

I needed my own Velveteen Amos.

And there was only one way to make it happen: become a Victor, to gain that attention and notoriety.

"Father, I want to volunteer." I asked a few years later, when I was shy of fourteen.

He turned in his chair, eyes wide. "Why would you want to do that?" he asked, disgusted. "You are no fighter, no warrior. You cannot do something that belongs to another."

"I want to do it, and that's final," I said, standing up. Father and Mother, they were weak. I would only have to demand and they became submissive. Their only child could manipulate them with ease; oh how they must've been a laughing stock. "If you do not allow me, I shall run on the day. Either prepare me or lose me."

He didn't have a choice. He complied with a hesitant nod. "Fine. But not this year. I want you to train for a year, and then you may do as you wish."

So I did as he said. I spent an entire year training, watching recaps and spending personal time with our Victors. Cashmere Arvoy, in particular, was someone who coined my interest, with her similar looks to Velveteen. She was odd, at first, looking at me with a puzzled expression.

"Why do you need to volunteer?" she deadpanned. "You have everything you need."

"It's a matter of principle," I lied. She couldn't know that I was volunteering, simply for the chance to have a woman like her. "And, as my Father is currently running the Academy you graduated from, I think it's best you help me out."

If she wasn't going to willingly help me, then I would force her. Manipulation was something I was adept at. She trained me, offered me advice on how to make sure I looked good, to gain sponsors and attention in order to be spared by the Gamemakers. Her sibling, Gloss, taught me the basics in weaponry and survival. Erizelda taught me cunning tactics like poison, whilst Jubilee taught me that allies are everything, but the stronger they are, the quicker they need to die.

I had all the help I needed. So, when the Seventy-Third Hunger Games arrived, I volunteered.

I was only fifteen, but knew enough to make two kills in the bloodbath, piercing with a spear and slicing with a sword. The arena was a savannah, with dry heat and yellow grass, an open stretch of dehydrated mud that left everything open and vulnerable. Two days in, I killed again, the "Anti-Careers" who decided to attack our supplies. They were stupid and reckless, but a certain blonde had caught my hair, even if her hair was matted and knotted by the extreme heat. I made sure she didn't suffer; a simple slice across her throat.

Careers fell. Tributes fell. I lasted, although a kind enough Mutt had ripped out a chunk of my flesh from my leg, before going for my ally's throat, silencing his anguished cries.

I was lucky; sponsors arrived by the gallon, all for me. My Father had ties in the Capitol; I'm sure he was begging for my help, seeing as the last gift I had received for none other than a fleece coat that absorbed heat without letting the body feel a thing.

My final kill was in the final, against my own ally. She was the girl from District Four, clean-cut and a prude. She hadn't killed - hadn't even volunteered, like a replica of that Annie Cresta a few years back - but she was hiding her true side. She lunged, feral eyes, and almost killed me. She breathed into my ear how she'd make me pay, how she'd make sure that I screamed through every cut and slice she would leave on my body.

She didn't see the hidden knife, but I saw her eyes drain of colour, black hair falling onto my lap. The camera didn't even see me cut out a piece of her lock, as a token of my own.

When I returned, Father was ecstatic. His business boomed, with children determined to be a part of something so glamorous and worthy, a real cause.

More and more girls with their blonde hair, all wanting to be the next Velveteen Amos, the next Cashmere Arvoy... the next Mrs Augustus Kingston.

But those urchins from District Twelve had other ideas, causing a rebellion. They ruined everything, everything I had planned. President Snow was so paranoid that people were out to get him, he had his closest allies killed, just in the fear that they might edit their morals. All of the District One Victors fell... all but me.

"You can't do this," my Father had begged, President Snow stood at the door of our musty office in Kingston Academy. "Please, he... h-he'd never think about going against you."

"I would not know where his loyalty lies, Mr Kingston," he said calmly, though his intimidation could be seen in the air. "My most trusted allies have turned against me at one point or the other. This way, I take away all possible threats."

"I-I-I'll do anything..."

"Anything?" he cracked a smile, the air now thick with the smell of blood. I hid in the corner, surprised at how much fear I had inside of me. "Well, in that case, I have a proposition for yourself and your son."

And that's how my business bloomed, so to speak. With Victors in high demand - and District One having the most magnificent stereotype possible - a brothel was needed. From there, they came, one-by-one, needing the money or wanting the attention or needing a new thrill. Blackdamp - the rogue, poor part of District One - had many needy children who would offer their services to a gutsy, bearded Peacekeeper seeking for a cheap night with a warm body, no matter their looks or personality, simply going for their type.

I was happy. Because, around me, the beautiful blondes flocked, their luscious, youthful bodies calling out to me.

Then, I saw her, a simply trainee girl only decades later. I might have aged and matured, but she was beyond fresh.

"What's your name, young girl?" I queried.

She looked up, doe-eyes large and cascading, blonde locks. "Sheer Fontane," she said sweetly. "Hopefully your next tribute?"

And indeed, she became that and much, much more. I was not the only one to enjoy the company of busty blondes, oh no, many, many more men enjoyed the same. Add a Victor stamp on them, and their attraction increases.

* * *

**So yeah. Augustus' was more about his history/future. That, and I wanted to shamelessly add onto Kingston Academy's reputation.**

**Just for clarification, Augustus does run the brothel, using both average girls and Victors. Sheer's drug addiction was fuelled through her newfound "job" which led to her death. Her addition was to show that Augustus favours certain girls.**

**Next: Peeta Mellark, so be prepared for tears of sadness or cringe. **


	9. Peeta Mellark

**Peeta Mellark, District Twelve Male.**

**Victor of the 74th & 75th Hunger Games.**

* * *

I knew it would be hard without her. Haymitch, in a drunken state, confirmed the worse. They'd be watching us now, me and Haymitch more so. We were enemies against the country of Panem, even though we had done nothing intentionally. They killed her because of something out of her control, out of her actual knowledge.

The anger would never leave me. It festered as the Hunger Games continued, and a few more Victors returned home. I had no idea who survived and who died; Haymitch said that his closest friends had perished. It made my whole body numb, just to realise that this is what it had come to; they had taken everything from me.

My Mother and Father, killed during the riots. My school friends, taken and held hostage in front of my eyes... Katniss, the trident plunging into her chest, Finnick's state of desperation clear...

I remember it all so vividly.

Katniss had crumpled to the floor and her cannon sounded. I stood there, shocked. No, no, Katniss couldn't die... Katniss was invincible, protected. She was a fighter who had lived harder lives than anyone else, but there she was, bleeding out on the jungle floor... it made me sick. It still does now. Her blood, forever imprinted in the Earth, an attraction for Capitol citizens to marvel at, to place their hands on the ground and say: "This is Katniss Everdeen, the Mockingjay, the traitor, the rebel and the deceased."

It didn't take long for my "victory". Finnick, too, was stunned at his actions. He had muttered a single word over and over again, the name of a girl, a sister, maybe even a friend. Annie. It had drove him to kill Katniss. I took advantage, my own sanity crumbling like sand. A quick grapple. A thrust of a knife. A snap of a neck.

I was alone. All alone.

Haymitch filled me in as I returned. A rebellion, he had told me. Katniss had unwittingly became a symbol that ignited years of fire, oppression and hatred. She didn't know; she didn't know that Beetee was going to break us out, nor that she'd have to help take Panem back.

I was in the Capitol as the news broke through about my parents, my friends, my life either held at gunpoint or ready to be buried under the bloodstained dirt. Ten Victors, that's what a Capitol attendant told us, as I waited in the Capitol for the interview, for the nightmare to be over. Peacekeepers were distributed. One by one, the lights of hope fell to the cold snap of a bullet, the crack of a whip, or the zap of a taser.

District Twelve had no lights. Their beacons of hope were contained in the Capitol, and without help, it was the first to fall. Districts began to crumble as I watched the television screen, fire and hell raining down. Casualties as innocent victims were caught in the crossfire. A man, showered with bullet holes, dead. A woman cradling her child as they were both executed.

Oppression grew. The ten fated Victors, we were known as, and I knew no-one but Haymitch. I hadn't had the privilege of meeting the others who survived for whatever reason.

It was a gala that brought us together, around three years after the Quarter Quell. Clifford Port of District Two was just announced as Victor when the party begun.

Two young men cheered in amazement. "Who are they?" I whispered to Haymitch.

He eyed them up, a jug of whiskey in his hand sloshing about. "...E-Evander and Signus," he slurred. "M-Mentors..."

I learned their names that day.

Augustus Kingston of District One, bright eyed and charming, but his attitude was less than impressive. His fellow Victor, Zircon Stark, who held a proud smile wherever he turned.

District Two with Evander, Signus and Maverick James, happy with their latest success over the other districts.

Cordelia Ethon, chained and held in a seat by warring Peacekeepers, who, despite torture and pain, managed to weakly smile and be polite. She pulled me closer, whispering in my ear: "You tried to change a nation. Be proud, boy."

Wisp Brucknall and Buck Kamut from District Six and Nine, respectively. Two boys who looked thoroughly broken, but attempted to smile for the multitude of cameras.

Lylac Brillax from District Ten, the first Victor after the Quell, who looked timid and scared.

District Eleven, Ida Noire, who kept to herself in a corner, refusing to meet eyes with anyone else.

But it was the last Victor that caught me. Annie Cresta of District Four. It didn't strike me - not straightaway, at least - but the name resounded in my head a couple of times and I knew, I just knew that Finnick meant her, the girl who won by luck. Hey, we could've been friends, I only won by luck too, I thought bitterly as I approached her.

"A-Annie?" I quietly said. Her eyes shot up, fearful and wide. "I-I'm sorry..."

"...you killed Finnick," she muttered, as if crazed. "They... they all died because of you, because of this... Mags, Coral, Lagoon, Cas- Dad," she was trembling so hard, I could sense that people were beginning to look. "...your actions killed the generation... good people died..."

"I'm so sorry," I could feel the emotions welling in my chest. "W-We never meant for any of this to happen..."

Her arms wrapped around her stomach, and it was then that I noticed the prominent bulge. "...my baby will never have a Father... because you killed him..."

By then, it was too late. Annie burst into tears and ran away, scurrying like a wounded animal. But she was wounded; mentally, at least. Everyone was looking, all the surviving Victors burning into my skull. Wisp who looked downtrodden. Buck who looked sad but offered a kind smile. Ida who looked angry, accusing. Cordelia who nodded proudly. All of the Careers, staring with hardened looks.

It was true. Me and Katniss had ruined a generation. Life wasn't fair, but people were trying to live peacefully... somehow, we caused the abundant chaos.

Their faces would never leave my head. No matter how many times I drew them, painted them, sliding the charcoal or crayon across the page, they never went away.

The scenes would forever be vivid. I'll forever be tormented. I carried the guilt for years, and on my deathbed, I decided to make peace.

_Katniss, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for allowing you to keep me alive. If I had died, none of this would've happened. You wouldn't be dead. Finnick wouldn't be dead. It's all my fault. I'm coming for you._

* * *

**So yeah. This was hard; writing canon characters can always be a major problem. I just don't know whether I done Peeta justice or not.**

**I think, in a sense, Peeta might blame himself. If Katniss had killed him - or he killed Katniss - then no nightlock, no winning, no nasty Quell and no rebellion. So yeah, it stemmed from them. Poor kids.**

**Next: Lylac Brillax, our first EsmeraldaVerse Victor!**


	10. Lylac Brillax

**Lylac Brillax, District Ten Female.**

**Victor of the 76th Hunger Games.**

* * *

Hope was something dangerous. That's what my mother said, as we hid during the Victor's Purge, as it later known as. Until then, it was simply an attack that left crops burnt to a crisp, and animals slaughtered on the pastures.

We only had three left. Buttercup and Lucky, shipped back into the arena, only to die. Amaryllis, shot in her sleep, body dragged out and displayed in front of all District Ten citizens. We were rounded up and brought to see as they lit her flesh on fire, forcing us to see that hope could be killed. That it wasn't indestructible.

With their deaths left nothing. We had nothing.

The Capitol forced us to work harder, to provide for what they had taken. My parents were pushed further and further into the ground from the work load. I remember crying, just because my father's bad back had left him bedridden for weeks, unable to even get through the day without screaming in pain. Everything had become so unbearable to live with.

But it was about to get worst. I felt it in my stomach, as they announced that the Hunger Games would continue, but that certain rules would be edited. They never publically said what, but we all knew, we knew that they would make the arena more dangerous, our lives more terrible, Hunger Games that would punish everyone, including the chosen Victor. Politics were thrown out of the window. Instead, it was replaced with a darkened fear, left on the edge of a blade or in a vial of poison.

I was chosen. It was nothing special, nothing memorable, just a little girl from a poor district.

An arena of stone. No weapons and no supplies, just the bitter air and the cold touch of rock. We was in a broken-down arena, like that of a war-torn city. It was to symbolise what would've happened to the districts, if they won. We would've been sent back years into the past, where times were tougher than they were then, if that was even possible.

It didn't take long. A dark fog rolled over the town, cascading through the cracks in the monuments. But they carried something dark. Tracker Jackers, their evil hums masked by the smothering cloud. No-one saw them coming. No-one heard them sting. In the night, as the moon beamed down, all you could hear were the fatal cries ringing out, followed by their cannon.

I was huddled against the stone wall, crying into my hands. Cannon after cannon, scream after scream, piercing the suffocating air.

And when the sunshine came, there were only three children left. It didn't take long to find the two small kids from District Eleven, partners until they end. Their small, famine bodies allowed them to hide in the cracks, invading the freaky wasps. But some had stung them. Blisters smothered their dark skin, leaving them in constant agony. I will never forget their faces. How the little boy begged for his mother, whilst the girl begged for her life.

The light hit my knife as I pulled it forth. I had no choice. I kept reminding myself that as I took their lives.

I was the first Victor after the Purge. I had no mentor; only my trusted escort, Lupa, who taught me everything I needed. She was my mentor, escort, stylist, secondary mother and more. For a Capitolite that seemed to lust for our blood, I found out that we had more in common that looks allowed. Lupa's son was a Peacekeeper, dispatched into District Five to contain a certain troublesome Victor. Apparently, said Victor poisoned his coffee.

I soon learned her name was Cordelia Ethon.

Lupa blamed the Capitol, not Cordelia. She said that Cordelia was being a human, and acting on instinct. The Capitol were to blame for making her resort to it. I didn't know what to say, but something blossomed that night: friendship.

She was there when I needed her. When I fell down on my knees and begged to die - the everlasting hunger eating away at my brittle bones - Lupa scraped up money to pay for a sliver of meat, just to get me to move a few more steps. When I watched my alliance die in the span of a couple of seconds - Oliver from District Nine, and my district partner, Kellan - Lupa had an encouraging message, a bundle of daisies to lay by their lifeless corpses.

When the fog was rolling in, her message told me to hide by the wall, away from their eyes.

I owed her my life. And, because of that, they took her. On moment, Lupa was by my side, the same bright smile and caring eyes. Then the next, there was a replacement, a bottled message saying that Lupa had retired and no longer wished to see me, signed by Coriolanus Snow himself.

I have no reason to believe that he didn't take her from me. I mean, why give the girl any hope? I had no mentors, no friends, and even my own family were never enough. It's hard to be around someone who just doesn't understand what you've been through, what you've seen.

Lupa understood. Lupa cared.

I spent years alone. Alone with my thoughts and nightmares. Of tales that I could never spill without fear of penalty. People didn't see those creatures that silently flocked in the night. One was so close to stabbing me, but it didn't. I saw the yellow lines and the red eyes. I couldn't ever forget them. They pierced my mind, running their poisonous feet over the little kids who screamed and cried for mercy, for life, for death.

As I grew older, someone called me wise. I told them that age was the curse of a Victor. It meant we lived longer with our nightmares and sins, whereas death seemed more welcoming.

In that arena, you want to live. You want to prosper with all your might. Death is so scary, so frightening that you're willing to kill if it means you face no pain. Hope is the only thing keeping you going. You hope to win. You hope to live. You hope to see the sunrise the next day, and the sunset the day after.

And then you leave, and death is welcoming and inviting, warm hands and a gentle hug into your sleep. Hope is no longer enough to get you through the day.

Death is the only option left. The one thing you feared with all your might, that you killed and spilled blood to avoid it.

I no longer feared death. I embraced it. I waited for it to come, and gave it a pat on the back for taking so long.

* * *

**No-one really knows Lylac, which was what I was trying to get. She died not long into EsmeraldaVerse.**

**Anyway, sorry for the delay. Got hell'a busy.**

**Next: Maverick James, our alcoholic, Haymitch-esque Career.**


	11. Maverick James

**Maverick James, District Two Male.**

**Victor of the 77th Hunger Games.**

* * *

It was that first hit of whiskey that ultimately destroyed me.

I was around seven years old, and my parents were arguing once more. It was the same thing over and over again. With the Capitol tightening their reigns, and despite District Two being a solid ally, they still took away their business, reducing it to ashes. My parents had nothing. That business - the quarry - was the only thing that was keeping them together.

A slap. A punch. A violent outburst, and me hiding under my bed, wishing away the screaming and crying.

When everything seemed calm, I crawled out of the dusty compartment, shaking and scared. I gently opened my door, only to see my mother on the floor curled up, gulping away at the whiskey bottle. She was asleep, but constantly whimpering, a bright bruise underneath her right eye. Everything I had known was ripped away from me. A child, who witnessed... this.

I took the bottle away from her, fighting my own emotions. My father - the man that was my idol - was nothing more than a woman beater, a man who abandoned his family.

So, I took the first swig. One became two and then three, until the final remains were tucked away in the warmth of my stomach.

Seven years old, and already drinking.

But it was never enough. Never, ever enough. My mother never regained her strength, buying the liquor to send her to sleep. She never even noticed that I stole one away each time, her drunken slumber keeping her unaware. She was too drunk most of the time to even realise that I was the same, swaying back and forth, my life a broken shell.

Things grew worse as the years went worse. She would barely wake up before downing some acidic liquid.

One day, my mother lashed out, a cruel bottle in her hand one moment, and then smashing into the wall the next, only inches away from my head. She had been complaining about dad once more, crying and weeping over his abandonment and betrayal. I had tried to sneak away one small, brown-glazed bottle, only to be caught red-handed.

I left home later that evening. Well, I say left, but really, my bags were packed and left on the curb in the rain, a note telling me that I'd end up like him, that I'd leave her eventually. It was easier this way because she had control, she had the choice to make and the action she could take.

I was only sixteen, nowhere near an adult.

The Victor's Purge happened, and I hid away in a gutter, fearful and scared. The troops began to bomb nearby. I bite my tongue, screamed into my hands, fear and terror washing over me.

Lyme Steele, a fearful Victor, allowed me to hide as she was executed in front of my eyes. I was nothing more than a stray child who she saved, when everyone told me that she was a brute, not to be messed up. Behind that cruel exterior was a heart that allowed a boy freedom.

I changed after that. I desperately wanted to gain control of my life, because I was given a second-chance. When the storm had passed, I signed myself up to the Training Centre, under the new guidance. I grew as a man that could fight, could want something and achieve it.

With a mace in my hand, I entered the arena. It was nothing more than a swamp with wet mud and a trickle for a stream. The Careers were formed, and I obediently followed as an ally. When the rain poured down on us, I was able to handle it, months on the streets adapting me to the cold and harsh environment. Jaz, from District One, was a prissy boy who hated the dirt. And he became my first kill, when he attempted to poison us all in our sleep.

I made it to the finale with that one kill under my belt. I didn't even feel guilty. It was self-defensive, a moment of red fury that burned through my veins and into my hands.

It was my last kill that broke me, that returned me to the watery hell. She was a small girl, barely above fourteen years old. With brown hair and brown eyes, she was a native of District Nine, something I realised as I slammed my mace into her fleeing back. She crumpled and died in seconds, her blood spraying on my hands, my face... my soul.

I watched the life leave her eyes. She was nothing more than a terrified child.

I was announced as a Victor, and it felt okay. The guilt was delayed. It didn't slam into me or ate at me straightaway. Oh no, it was much worse. It bubbled and boiled like a disgusting potion, buried in my heart, just waiting and waiting... and then it opened up during my Victory Tour. I didn't even make the stage in District Three because I was so... so... hammered. The memories are foggy, but the champagne was calling me, a fizz that promised to take away the pain.

It grew dark, and I fell asleep. When I woke, Signus was furious, calling me irresponsible and childish. He even broke the entire liquor cabinet, just to teach me a lesson.

"You shouldn't be so dependant on something. It'll break you. Man up, grow a pair, and remember that you wanted this." he hissed, words made of venom.

So I did. I drank when no-one was around. I kept it together remotely for years, watching Clifford and Brick and Amity come home. After saving Ajax, and seeing Tarzana and Lennox make it safely, I broke. Amity's anorexia. Ajax's PTSD. Lennox's disorder flaring out of control, a shell of the boy I watched and trained personally.

I was... I was helping to destroy them. I was encouraging them to run themselves into the dirt, torn at the seams.

They never came when I called. When her image haunted me that fateful night, the lights having blown. I begged for Signus to save me. For Ajax, or even Tarzana, to check up on me in the night, to make sure I hadn't drowned in my own vomit. And luckily, I didn't.

I drifted off in my sleep. I felt reality slipping away. I barely heard the shatter of glass, or the squelch of liquid pouring out.

I was content. I was no longer a burden, a boy looking to be everything his father wasn't. I was dead... where I deserved to be.

* * *

**This was a fun one. Maverick wasn't like anyone else. He tried so hard to be a man, that it left him a shell.**

**I have nothing else to say, really.**

**Next: Clifford Port.**


End file.
